


Your Name On My Bones

by Harp_of_Gold



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: BDSM, Blood, Cutting, Lord/vassal, M/M, angbang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 13:46:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17346299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harp_of_Gold/pseuds/Harp_of_Gold
Summary: Set in Utumno days. Mairon pushes the boundaries, and Melkor thinks about what he really wants.





	Your Name On My Bones

“My lord, this is foolishness,” Mairon spat. “Oromë himself rides with these elves. I’ve had my best scouts—”

“Enough.” Melkor’s eyes flashed cold and dark. “What care I for the Hunter? You will carry out the attack, and that’s the end of it.”

“We cannot face him head on. We aren’t ready. I told you, I just need a few days.”

“Lieutenant.”

Mairon trembled. He’d quickly learned not to make Melkor repeat himself. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes, dreading the rage he knew would follow. “I won’t lead our troops into certain defeat.”

“Won’t?” Melkor’s voice dropped low, silky and dangerous. “You would defy me so soon, little flame?”

“No, my lord, that’s not it. Please just listen; I can’t let you do this!”

Melkor had moved forward until he loomed over Mairon, his body pressing the Maia into the edge of the council table. He gasped as Melkor’s hips grazed his cock. Suddenly he was glad the chamber had emptied.

“Perhaps the freedom and trust I have given you have gone to your head.” The Vala placed one huge hand on Mairon’s chest and pushed him down, forcing him back until his shoulders hit the stone. Roughly Melkor gathered his wrists above his head and clasped them to the table with a word of power, causing stone to flow and form into bands, wrapping around his wrists and holding him down. With a vicious jerk he ripped open the front of Mairon’s robe. Mairon cursed inwardly at the hours of embroidery so casually spoiled.

“You swore yourself to me, and I have certain expectations. Loyalty. Obedience.”

The fiery blaze of his spirit surged. “You have countless servants you keep around for their blind obedience. That isn’t what you wanted from me! You wanted my mind, my skill, my—”

A single finger on his lips stilled his words. “Oh, Mairon. You are beautiful and reckless. But I cannot allow this. You freely chose to belong to me, but now I own you, and I will not have you forget it.”

“I do not forget it.” Mairon spoke softly. He could see his master’s mind would not be changed; he had knowingly crossed a line, and he would have to accept the consequences. The fury of the storm he had watched in awe and longing shone in his master’s eyes, and now it was turned on him. Catching his breath, Mairon was swept up for a moment in pure adoration until the cold touch of a knife on his skin returned him to himself. He strangled a cry as it pierced his flesh.

“What—what are you…” He trailed off in pained whimpers as Melkor began to drag the sharp blade through him, slicing through skin and muscle with ease. The tip grated on bone as it hit his rib.

“I’m putting my name on my most precious possession.”

Heat flooded his groin at those words. He gasped, praying Melkor wouldn’t notice. Had he not begged for this very thing, Melkor’s mark upon his body? But he had wanted to receive it proudly, not like this. Not as punishment. The trail of the knife where it parted his flesh seared with agony. Mairon struggled not to twist away or fight his bonds. He couldn’t bear to let his master think he rejected his touch, whether it brought him pleasure or pain.

The knife clattered to the table, and Melkor pressed a bruising kiss to his lips. “Lie there, little flame, and consider your place until I return.”

“Where are you going?!”

“If you will not lead my troops, I must go myself.” Melkor melted into shadow and was gone.

Cold dread settled over Mairon then, chasing away the remnants of desire. The planned raid on the elven migrants could only end disastrously. What if his lord were harmed without Mairon by his side? He tested the strength of the stone circling his wrists. Stone by itself he might have broken or shapeshifted away from, but Melkor had poured into it his indomitable will, and Mairon could no more escape than he could wish himself back to Almaren. Pain streaked through him at the effort. Mairon glanced down at his throbbing chest. Blood welled from the sign carved there. It sat too high for him to see it well, but he could feel its burning trace on his fëa, and he knew its shape by heart—he had designed it himself, part of the elegant system of pictographs he and Melkor had invented for writing love notes but were now more used in record-keeping. Melkor’s signature, a mountain surmounted by a crown. He intended to treasure it despite his circumstance, if only Melkor made it back to him in one piece.

He closed his eyes, resigning himself to endure the sickness settling like lead in his stomach and the wet trickle of blood dripping into his robes. The hours passed slowly. The candles burned down and flickered out, leaving him in the dark. Faintly he could hear the wind howling through the peaks above Utumno, cold and far off. Mairon hadn’t the energy to make a light. What did it matter anyway? It wouldn’t stop his body from aching, nor could it banish the chill seeping into his bones. 

What if Melkor didn’t come home? No, that was blasphemy. Not even Oromë could overcome his lord. But if he were outnumbered? Overrun? No. He had to trust Melkor that far. He began to wonder if perhaps he had been too stubborn. His protests hadn’t stopped Melkor, and now Mairon could do nothing to aid him. He would far rather lay down his own life than see his master at the mercy of the other Valar. A tear slipped down his cheek. Yes, he had been far too stubborn for one who served so stubborn a master. He would not let it happen again. Crying softly in the dark, he could only wait as the room grew colder. 

Slowly Mairon became aware of a subtle shift, a misalignment of gravity that tugged compellingly on the edges of his being. “Master?” 

“I’m here.”

Mairon sighed in profound relief, letting go of tensions he’d hardly realized he held. Fire crackled to life on the hearth, and Melkor circled the room, lighting new candles and trimming lamps. All for Mairon’s benefit, he knew. Melkor needed no light. Finally his master stood before him and released his stone shackle. Without hesitation Mairon slid to his knees, wincing at his body’s angry protests. He bowed his head.

“I know my place, my lord. It’s right here at your feet. I’m sorry for my disobedience. I only sought to serve you, but I—I shouldn’t have done it.”

Melkor’s silence was crushing. A tiny whimper escaped Mairon’s throat. He bent forward and kissed his lord’s boots. They were stained with blood. 

“Please tell me you’ll still have me,” he whispered. 

Strong hands lifted him into a tight embrace. “My precious little flame.” Melkor’s voice was hoarse and tinged with sorrow. “I could never cast you away.” He pulled back just enough to tip Mairon’s chin up and look into his eyes. “Oromë was there with his whole hunt, more followers than I ever thought he could have, and I realized, as I fled, that had I sent you in my place as I had intended, I…I might have lost you.”

Mairon was proud that he did not say “I told you so.” He knew the exact number of Oromë’s followers, and had tried to share it more than once. He found himself clutched to his lord once more and let his frustration melt away. Reaching up, he pulled Melkor’s mouth down to his and kissed him fiercely. “My spirit would find you again, no matter what.” He did not speak his own unworthy fears.

Melkor responded greedily, trailing kisses down Mairon’s throat, his teeth grazing the Maia’s skin, but then he paused. His thumb gently stroked the crusted blood on Mairon’s chest. “It seems I do want more than simple obedience from you.” He sighed. “I need you at my side, not always at my feet.” The way he lingered faintly on “always” sent a shiver down Mairon’s spine. “Perhaps it is not fitting that a lieutenant wear the mark of an owned thing.”

“My lord, if you were to flay me alive and write your name on every bone in my body, I would still breathe only worship when you were done.”

With a predatory grin, Melkor pressed lips and tongue to his mark, licking away the blood, sending heat and power coursing deep into Mairon’s body. Mairon cried out, clinging to Melkor. He couldn’t say if the sensations overwhelming him were torment or ecstasy, and he didn’t care.

“Let it stand, then, and I vow to you by this sign that I will listen before I command.”

Those words were perhaps the sweetest he had heard since the first time Melkor growled “I want you” in his ear. Mairon gazed up, eyes wide and soft with pleasure, his cheeks flushing under the intensity of his master’s regard. Melkor brushed his fingers over Mairon’s parted lips and laughed low when Mairon’s whole body quivered at the touch. He glanced down pointedly, and Mairon felt his face go even redder. What good were these bodies that constantly betrayed desire? But Melkor’s lips were on his throat again, and his craving left no room for embarrassment. 

“Is there something else you wanted, little flame?”

Mairon’s lithe fingers were already tugging apart the pieces of his lord’s armor. “Please.”

Melkor cast his thick fur cloak on the floor and pulled Mairon down atop it.


End file.
